


Let Them Feast (On Their Own Perfection)

by ThirteenSocks



Series: Treason [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Robotic Zombies, Robots, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirteenSocks/pseuds/ThirteenSocks
Summary: He vows to the quiet night, to those who must be listening, to those who brought him here, who lowered that man in a grave, that he’ll find them. He’s going to rip sinew clean from bone and flesh and let them suffocate on the blood thick in their throats. He’s going to kill them all the ways he’s seen them kill the man, and himself.There will be justice.





	Let Them Feast (On Their Own Perfection)

**Author's Note:**

> They’re star-crossed lovers but not by design. In reality across reality, they’re ripped from one another by purposeful machinations. He’s come to believe that something, whatever it may be, has it out for him and whoever this man is that he keeps see dying. 
> 
> He’s slowly turning from man to machine, and his only wish is to find and save this man before every part of him is metal and circuitry.

The snow blows softly, quietly around him. Though his footsteps pack it down, the crunch is muffled from the silencing effect of the white falling around him. The chill bites at his skin even beneath the thick coat like he’s being stabbed by the pinprick of a thousand needles. His breath joins the air as a brief cloud that evaporates too soon from leaving his lips. The impermanence is weight set down heavy on his breast as he kneels down before the snow-dusted slab of stone peeking from beneath the buried Earth.

Reaching out, he brushes the thin layer of frost with trembling fingers. The flakes stick to the fuzz of his mittens and melt inside the lining.

It’s well-worn. Wind, and rain, and lightning, and snow, and sun have beat down upon it for long enough that the carvings are nearing level with the stone.

He slips his right hand out from the mitt. The falling snow softly clanks against the metal of it and the shine of its surface dulls over with first condenscation and then a cover of frost. The gears inside protest and stick as the appendages are forced to flex and trace the grooves of the engravings.

The cold constricts his throat and the spit he swallows burns the torn inside. Salty tears pour warm streams from eyelids down to his neck. The bitter freeze claims even their warmth.

“Here lies Kogane Keith.

Paladin of Voltron.

Beloved son and husband.”

There are numbers but their covered by the snow and the curtain of tears that refuse to pull back to reveal this an eleborate farce.

“I.. I don’t know you but-,” he grits teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, bellowing without motion or sound as he rams his fist against the grave header, “I can’t take this,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Memory after memory materializes before him. There’s a man, no a boy, no a man- black hair that reaches as long as knees, twisted neatly in a braid, then short as shoulders and messy, then in a ponytail, then a military cut- short and then tall and then short, but never Shiro’s height- sad, mostly sad, but sometimes smiling and it’s a radiant, warm smile when he does- a wedding ring, no, it changes shape and color and style, rings?- “Shiro,” “Takashi,” “Kashi,” “Sven,” “Sir,” “Baby,” “Love,” “Husband.”

He screams and jerks to his feet. He snaps a branch off a tree, it’s brittle bark giving like its paper, and he breaks it in half. Again. And again. And again. Until the twigs are too small to bend further and the bundle to numerous. So he fires up his metal arm which whirs to life with heat and light, and sets it ablaze within his palm.

Dropping to knees once more, forced down by the sorrow trying to bury himself in the dirt along with the man in his visions, and digs out the snow so that the soil is exposed. He throws fist after fist at it, satisfied in the ringing that travels from fingers to wrist to arm from impact.

He vows to the quiet night, to those who must be listening, to those who brought him here, who lowered that man in a grave, that he’ll find them. He’s going to rip sinew clean from bone and flesh and let them suffocate on the blood thick in their throats. He’s going to kill them all the ways he’s seen them kill the man, and himself.

There will be justice.


End file.
